All I Want for Christmas

It was snowing in Manhattan, and Jonathan brushed off his corduroy trench coat as the door swung shut behind him. A janitor was mopping the marble.

Jonathan carefully stepped around the water and strode across the lobby to the concierge. "Charles," he said, "is there any mail for me?"

"Welcome home, sir." The concierge turned and pulled a short stack of letters from the row of mail-slots behind him. "Here you are, sir. Happy holidays."

Jonathan shuffled through the letters and found a handwritten envelope nestled between two catalogs. He paused. There was no return address, but the smudged postmark seemed to read Nashville. Jonathan shrugged. Maybe it was from one of his former coworkers. With the catalogs tucked under one arm, he extended a finger under the flap and sliced the envelope open as he walked across the lobby to the elevator.

The bronze elevator doors opened, and Jonathan stepped in as he removed the letter from the envelope. A soft jazz rendition of I'll be Home for Christmas whispered from the speakers, and Jonathan pushed the button for the 42nd floor as the doors slowly shut.

The letter was handwritten on lined paper.

Merry Christmas Johnny. It snowed in Nashville last night, but most everything has melted and the snow that stayed behind is grey.

Johnny, I left. I have a job now, a real job. Down at a restaurant by the interstate, I'm a waitress. They serve flapjacks down there, and sometimes eggs, Johnny, even at night. You would like the flapjacks, Johnny. They make them real fluffy, and I would cover it with maple syrup, just the way you like it.

I still wear the red shoes you bought me, Johnny, even though the heels are starting to go. And I'm engaged now, and I think I love him. He draws all these beautiful pictures of meadows and farms and the country, Johnny, and I think he loves me too.

I had a son and I named him Benjamin, just like in that story you told me about the man who dived into the Cumberland River trying to save the woman's life. He's not yours, Johnny, but I just wanted you to know.

I still think about you, Johnny, whenever I see the Cumberland River.

One day, I'm going to buy a boat and sail down the Cumberland to Mexico. I'll get myself a house on the water and paint it red and eat flapjacks everyday. I think I'll be happy, Johnny. I do.

Because hell, Johnny, I don't sell my body no more, though I still have that scar on my back from where you cut me with the bottle. And I know you're sorry, Johnny, that you didn't mean to hurt me. I know you were never like my other clients, Johnny, I downed two fifths of bourbon when you left Nashville for good.

And hey Johnny, truth is, Benjamin never had a chance. I had to abort him three months into the pregnancy, when his father was taken away and I damn near went mad. His father is up for parole next Christmas, Johnny, and we're still engaged. I would visit him everyday if I could, but see, Johnny, the only time I can visit the pen is when I serve breakfast down there. They said I was sick, real sick, and they got me in this room in the psych ward, and I'm wearing the red shoes with my uniform, and the only thing, Johnny, the only thing I can see through the bars in my window, the only thing, is the Cumberland River.

Good bye, Johnny.

A bell dinged as the elevators door opened to the 42nd floor. Jonathan turned the page over, as if he expected something to be written on the back. It was blank.

The elevator doors began closing, and Jonathan reached out an arm to stop it. Stuffing the letter back into the envelope, he folded it in half and slid it into his trousers pocket before emerging from the elevator.

As he opened the apartment door, the sound of a TV show stole into the hallway, followed closely by the faint smell of roast chicken.

"Hey dad." His son was splayed out on the couch, attention fixed on the television.

"Hey, where's your mother?" Jonathan asked as he hung his coat on the rack by the door.

"She's unpacking a chicken we just picked up from Zabar's."

"Okay, tell her I'm going to take a quick shower."

Jonathan walked over to the bedroom and closed the door behind him. It was still snowing, but he walked over to the balcony anyways and, sliding the door open, stepped outside. His fingers reached for a cigarette, and, as a frosty North wind canvassed Manhattan, he lit up. Against the glittering backdrop of billboards and streetlamps, Jonathan removed the letter from his pocket and tore it into a thousand tiny pieces. Then, just to make sure, he lit each piece with his cigarette before releasing it into the falling snow.

As Jonathan extinguished his cigarette and stepped back into his apartment, a gust of wind blew past, propelling the string of burning letter pieces Southward like little red Christmas lights to Mexico.

Almost

I've got a map and it says that there's only 300 miles till the morning; I won't spill my guts like the deer in the shoulder, but you can be damn sure I'll sing.

The road smiles back at you; today is just the beginning of the rest of the world.

Finer Things

He sat alone in the darkened living room, the glow from his computer screen vying with the dim light of the kitchen for the pleasure of illuminating the pale buds of his bare skin. A frenzied John Coltrane piece swept through the room's shadowed corners, and, between wincing at sips of a $7 sauvignon blanc from a plastic cup, he tried desperately, in his stupor, to make sense of - to love - the sophisticated musical mess.

Bloody hell.

He turned off the music, flicked on the living room light, picked up the worn copy of The New Yorker sitting by his feet (his family doctor's address neatly scissored from the bottom right corner), and tossed it in the recycling bin. Then, before stepping into the shower, he scrolled to Katy Perry in his music collection and began playing Teenage Dream, making sure to turn the volume up all the way.

Wouldn't It Be Nice

Usually on weeknights (by which I mean Sunday - Thursday night, where I have to wake up at some unholy hour the following morning), I sleep pretty well - y'know, just collapse and pass out. Last night, though, a small memory of a certain night in Shanghai at a place called Club Bonbon (picture below) crossed my mind for whatever reason.

Bad move, Josh.

It's not a story I'm going to repeat in this public setting, but the memory got me thinking about other times I had in Shanghai - dining with the mayor, singing karaoke with an ex-mobster's family, picking up ran...yeah, no more stories - and it all blew my mind. Who was this person that did all this crazy stuff? I lay there on my full size mattress (without a boxspring) and marveled at the life of this other person that was Past Josh.

Of course, one Past Josh story led to another, from Hong Kong to Paris to Toronto, and before I knew it, Present Josh was not only in a state of endless marvel but also dead tired and doomed to sleep through his alarm the next morning.

And of course, now that Later-Present-Josh is once again deliriously tired, I've realized that I've been focusing a lot on the future as of late. Overwhelmingly so. Which, don't get me wrong, is delightful and fantastic and wonderful and will probably get me a decent job, but sometimes, I really need to just sit back and remind myself that the past has been marvelous too - and that on your quest for the championship, you sometimes have to remind yourself of your track record in order to keep chugging (was that a World Cup reference? or the NBA championship? gasp*).

So despite having over an hour of sleep stolen from me, I convinced myself that maybe bonbon wasn't such a bad move after all, and fell asleep somewhere in the middle of one of Past Josh's stories. And, of course, I awoke, on time, as I did every weekmorning, to Wouldn't It Be Nice at 6:45 AM.

Why yes, The Beach Boys, it would be nice if we were older and wouldn't have to wait so long, but it'd be nicer if I could just be myself now, and just very, very slowly become older, but never ever forget about younger. And with that, I hopped out of bed, and the Beach Boys surfed while I brushed my teeth:

Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up, in the morning when the day was new...

Underground

The subway lurches forward into the night, its quiet rumbling underscoring the speed with which the city is passing us by.

Nearly all the seats are empty, except for an old woman, clutching her groceries between her knees at the end of the row of hard steel seats across from us. A group of tired business types, surprisingly silent and still bound by their collars, are scattered further down the car. A teenage boy in skinny jeans and oversized headphones saunters over to the door as the train slows towards its next station.

Next station: Prince Edward. Doors will open on the right.

She nestles closer to me as the doors slide open and the people come, go, stay, leave. As a stooped-over man shuffles onboard, the old woman begins muttering to herself. In our little nest across the aisle, we share a stifled laugh.

Please stand back from the doors. Beep-beep-beep-beep.

The doors shut and the train lurches forward once again. She leans her head against my shoulder, a lovely weight against my chest, and closes her eyes. Her bangs drift to the side, and I reach up to fix them as a faint hint of spring wafts from her and spins a cocoon around us.

I can feel the weight of her breathing, her ebb and flow. My own breath begins to fall into rhythm with hers, but I'm afraid to move.

The train rushes into the night; stations open, close. The old woman disappears with her groceries. More stations open, close.

Next station: Diamond Hill. Doors will open on the left.

I feel myself inhaling, and I gently nudge her awake.

"Hey. This is you."

Her eyes barely open, she smiles, blinking, and sits upright. My shoulder falls a little without her. The train slows.

She stands up and beams down at me. The train screeches to a stop, and the doors slide open.

"See you around," she whispers, and, turning, leaves.

I glance over to her seat to see if she has forgotten anything - if she has left anything behind - but the seat is empty, its steel surface reflecting the dull, fluorescent lighting. I stand up anyways and find myself moving towards the doors. Somehow, she must have forgotten something.

At the doors, I hesitate.

Please stand back from the doors. Beep-beep...